


We Don't Try

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Prostitution, Sibling Incest, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:12:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, you only remember in flashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Don't Try

_**019**_  
 **WE DON'T TRY**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Dean/Sam  
 **WARNINGS** : season two AU; evil!Sam

  
**ONE**

The thing is, you only remember in flashes. Sammy there, his hands on your arms, squeezing hard, squeezing tight, little Sammy there and his mouth on yours. The thing is, all these dirty motel rooms, they all look the same, all these back country roads, these small towns, there’s just this perpetual stage of déjà vu every time you open the goddamn door, and, boy, if all this shit isn’t getting old. Sammy there, his nose bumping your chin, his fingers creeping down the front of your jeans, sliding down your zipper, Sammy there as he opens his mouth so wide. The thing is, you and your stupid memories, you’ve had this taste in your mouth ever since your father took you away from Kansas, this taste in your mouth of blood and ash. This taste of fire.

The thing is, the boys that invite you back to their hotels, the ones waving crisp fifty dollar bills, the ones that always seem to find you, well, you raid mini bars for cheap booze and hope to God you find something, anything, to drown out that taste. These memories, Sammy there as he licks the rock salt off the palms of your hands, what you wouldn’t give for something new, what you wouldn’t give for that normal life that Sam craves. That fucking nine to five desk job, the two point five kids, the thing is, the whiskey that burns your throat, that perfect house and its white picket fence, what you wouldn’t give to forget about all these things you know, all these things you think you know, all these monsters.

Sammy there, as he kisses you, his mouth and nose and fingers sliding through your hair, Sammy there as his tongue glosses over your lips and all you taste is copper, the burnt corpses of all those ghosts you’ve slain, all those demons you’ve sent back to Hell. What you wouldn’t give for a chance to leave this all behind.

  
 **TWO**

Sam goes out for dinner and comes back with bruises. You don’t ask why, but, later, when he steps into the shower with you, the water that hisses as it touches his skin, the steam that billows like clouds, he says he just wants to forget about all of this, all this sex, all this touching, he says he just wants it to be all over and done with. Gone forever, but, his fingers and his hands, his mouth at the nape of your neck, he says he just wants to go back to pretending, to college and part-time jobs and girls with curves like Jess, beautiful blonde hair, he says he just wants to belong. You and this water that washes away the smell of alcohol, all this cheap booze, his teeth and the soft skin under your jaw, the blood that swirls down the drain, he says he just wants to be normal like everybody else.

You and this taste of charcoal in your mouth, this fire, you tell him to join the fucking club.

  
 **THREE**

You get into bar fights with local kids, anyone with warm brown eyes and a wide smile, broad shoulders and big hands, big enough to wrap two fingers around your wrist and squeeze and squeeze, anyway, big enough to make you pass out from the pain. You break the bottoms of beer bottles, kicking over bar stools and throwing wild punches, clawing at anyone who gets in your way, and, all these kids, all these hardcore drunks, you usually end up getting your ass kicked. Sammy calls this reckless behavior, butterfly stitches the cuts on your forehead without pain meds and smoothes cool fingers over split lips, swollen knuckles, black eyes. Sammy calls this a death wish, bites the inside of his cheek at the sight of your bruises, the black and blue outlines of your ribs, all these broken bones and dislocated shoulders, all little these ways of hurting yourself.

The thing is, you’re starting to drink like Dad used to, the nightly binges with Jack and Jose, the secret flasks hidden in every pocket, all these half-empty bottles in the backseat of the Impala, in the trunk wedged between the shotguns. The thing is, you’re eating less and drinking more, collecting five o’clock shadows and black bags under your eyes, wasting away little by little, and there’s nothing anybody can do to change that, nothing little Sammy could ever do.

Sammy and his serious face, the mouth he uses to kiss away your pain, he calls this a self-destruct mission, such a cowardly way of killing yourself, this stupid fucking plan. Sammy and the way he rolls his eyes, the way he squares his jaw and breathes hard through his nose, he calls this your biggest failure to date, something to waste your time on, something to distract you from the fact that you’re just such a big fuck-up, just such a big fucking disappointment. Sammy and his mouth on you, the way he leaves teeth marks all over your chest, well, the way he takes a drink from the flask you hide under your pillow, just in case, his hands all over you, he’s saying, “You’re not even strong enough to pull the fucking trigger.”

  
 **FOUR**

The thing is, after your father dies, all these memories, all these nightmares, Sam stops having visions and starts getting scars. They’re tiny, at first, raised vertical lines on the small of his back, in the middle of his wrist, black lines in the shape of upside down crosses, red circles like drops of blood. They’re tiny, at first, these wounds in the shape of tears, but they grow with each passing day, the farther from Kansas you get, the farther from where you burned your father’s body, and they’re getting bigger, getting darker.

The thing is, Sam starts wearing long-sleeved shirts, even to bed, the marks that criss-cross his skin, the scars that just seem to appear, he doesn’t take showers with you anymore, won’t let you turn on the light when you slip underneath the sheets. All these memories, the more you drink and drink, and maybe it’s to forget, maybe it’s to burn the feeling of those scars from your fingertips, but, later, at night, your lips just can’t seem to stop brushing them.

Because, see, the thing is, all these scars, they taste nothing like fire.

  
 **FIVE**

Sammy takes to writing on your skin. He keeps Sharpies in his back pocket now, pulls one out the next time you drink yourself into oblivion and pass out cold on the floor, sprawled lengthwise on his bed, tucked in on yourself in the backseat of the Impala. He draws symbols he picks up from Dad’s journal, symbols of protection, old Apache text scribbled on each of your fingers, Inca encircling your ankles and wrists, symbols of strength and courage, everything you used to be. All these memories, he draws lines above your heart, tally marks, to count every life you couldn’t save, every person that died in your arms. He counts two hundred and thirty seven little lines, and says, “Keep this up,” his mouth in the shape of a smile, his white teeth glinting in the moonlight, he’s saying, “Keep this up and I’m gonna run out of room.”

You down three more bottles of beer and forget to wash it off the next time you take a shower.

  
 **SIX**

See, Sam says, his disheveled hair, the way his eyes follow you from the bed as you stumble in the dark, stumble over clothes and weapons, empty bottles, See, he says. His dark eyes, the more and more you drink, the less like your brother he becomes, those hands that turn into fists, that mouth that used to be sweet and gentle, all these cheap motel rooms, there’s blood soaked into the carpet and no one ever even asks why. See, he’s saying, the muscles that jump under his skin, and the farther and farther away you get from Kansas, the less fights you get in to because little Sammy’s just fine with doing that job for you. Little Sammy’s just fine with taking over that role. See, he says.

“What?” you ask, but it’s not right because the words don’t come with the movement of your mouth, the volume’s turned all the way down, and all you can taste is blood. All you can taste is ash, the burning body of your mother, your father, all you can taste is fire, and, boy, if this isn’t just so fucking fitting. “What?”

“See,” he says, and this is going nowhere. Sam’s leaning up on his elbows, hoisted up and peering over the covers, and for once, his chest is bare, exposing all those scars in the harsh moonlight. All those marks, his lips are red like blood, and he’s saying, “You just can’t help it, can you?” His white teeth, you’re gripping the edge of the bed to keep your balance, your vision swimming before you, and he’s saying, “You just can’t escape this, can you, you just can’t let it go.”

You and your mouth, you squint your eyes to look at him through the dark, you and all your stupid ways of hurting yourself, you say, “What?”

  
 **SEVEN**

All your memories like flashes, the thing is, you love this. Sammy there as he touches you, Sammy there as he kisses your skin, see, right here, this isn’t so bad. See, as Sammy bends his face to run his nose along your chest, to lay his mouth against your collarbone, see, as Sammy pushes his tongue against yours, this has the potential to feel so right. This can be everything you’ve ever dreamed of.

Sammy here and his smile so wide, his exhalation of laughter against the nape of your neck, see, this can be everything you’ve always wanted.

  
 **EIGHT**

It’s in Corpus Christi that Sam finally gives in, gives up. On you, on everything, all these big ideas, and it’s in Corpus Christi that Sam stops adding tally marks to the patch of skin over your heart and starts saying that he loves you.

He stops pretending to be normal, stops reading college textbooks for those classes he’ll go back to one of these days, stops pining for that apple pie life, Sammy and all his big dreams, he stops hurting you for letting him touch you. Sammy and all his stupid wishes, he lets you kiss every one of his scars, lets you taste something else besides fire for once, besides all that blood and ash. He lets you drink as much as you want, Sammy and his blind eye, he lets you hide flasks in the glove compartment, under the floor mat in the car, he lets you keep half-empty bottles of whiskey behind your father’s old knife collection and doesn’t say anything when he finds them. It’s in Corpus Christi that Sam starts smiling brighter, starts forgetting why he hated this life so much in the first place.

See, the thing is, you and all your stupid hope, you and all your big plans, it’s in Corpus Christi that Sam finally makes a deal with the demon.

  
 **NINE**

The scars start going away after about a week, the demon’s mark on little Sammy, his calling, the little upside down crosses, the little drops of blood, they give way to smooth skin and Sammy’s just so fucking happy. The little symbols he drew on you, the ones that just won’t wash away, they burn whenever Sammy tries to touch you and maybe you’re just starting to wonder about all of this. Maybe you’re just starting to feel some regrets. All those symbols, all that magic written on your skin, that old Apache, all that Incan, all that Latin, well, nothing’s ever hurt this bad. Nothing’s ever been this heartbreaking.

Dad did it all wrong, Sam says, twisting the little amulet around his neck, the one the demon gave to him, the one that’s supposed to keep him in check, twisting and twisting, he says, Dad gave up too soon. The yellow-eyed demon that used to haunt little Sammy in his sleep, he’s saying, “Fuck Dad.” Twisting and twisting that necklace, his dark eyes on you, he’s saying, “It’s time we made our own decisions.”

You’re wondering if this is just all one big phase, Sammy and his little rebel attitude, the way he used to strive to be normal, maybe he’s just embracing this way too much, maybe he’s just trying to show you up. You and all your big plans, all those lives you tried to save, well, maybe this is just one more way of Sammy telling you to fuck off, telling you to just mind your own goddamn business.

Dad tried and tried for so long, Sam says, rolling his eyes, running his fingers over your chest, this burn that comes in waves, this burn that feels like fire on your skin, the taste of ash in your mouth. His fierce smile, he’s saying, And look where he ended up, you and your mouth, this taste like blood. And, see, right here, with you and Sammy and the demon watching your every move, the thing is, maybe this is just what’s supposed to happen.

  
 **TEN**

The thing is, you and all your stupid memories, these flashes of touch and taste and smell, all this blood, all this fire, you and little Sammy here, maybe it’s just time you gave up, too.


End file.
